072 Somebody That I Used To Know
by Perilous Cowboy
Summary: A 100 Songs Prompt. Gaby wants to know where Illya got the scar on his face, but every time she asks, he gives her a lie.


**Somebody That I Used To Know  
** _A 100 Songs Challenge_

"Where did you get this?" she asks one day while he's playing chess. A thumb gets traced down the V shaped scar at the side of his eye. He easily takes her wrist and guides her fingers away. Don't touch.

Solo's back is to them, but Illya knows he's listening.

"It was a car bomb," Illya tells her, chin tipped, smug. "In Yugoslavia."

"Truly?" she asks. He thinks she's getting better at spotting his lies.

"No." He doesn't elaborate.

* * *

After a successful mission in Venice, he's sharing a drink with Solo and Gaby when she asks again.

"Will you tell me about the scar now? To celebrate?"

He tips back to cognac Solo had poured for them, expensive taste, and sets his glass down on the table. He lean's against the railing of the balcony. "As part of KGB training, you must wrestle bear. It ensures only the strongest Russian becomes agent. I win of course, but...it was close. This bear fought well."

"And they say Americans are stereotypical," Solo says with a small shake of his head. He tips back his own glass.

Gaby's eyes narrow at him. "Why don't you want to tell me?" The fluctuations of her voice insinuate impatience. "Is it embarrassing?" Coy.

"Maybe I like to hear you guess," he shoots back at her.

A moment of thought, he can see the gears turning in her mind, building a story. "It was a woman," she says and her face goes impassive. "You like them strong. Until one of them busts your head." She stalks back inside, with more frustration than Illya expected to be there.

A glance at Solo and the man opens his mouth, a suave comment twisting his tongue, no doubt. But he just shuts his mouth and shakes his head, following Gaby inside.

Illya clucks his tongue and gathers the empty glasses.

* * *

It's a concussion and a rather strong one. Enough that the medical team suggested a night in the infirmary. Illya protests. Solo insists. Gaby enforces.

A white bed and a light flashed in each eye and the doctor asks, "Ever had a concussion before?"

"Yes," he answers easily. "Many times."

Gaby's next to him. "Ask him how he got this, doctor." As if she already knows the story.

A frown on the doctor's face. "It doesn't look recent."

Illya plays along anyway. When Gaby gets frustrated, she gets cute. He's never told her that. "This is from a race horse, who kick me in the head," he says and the doctor doesn't buy it any more than Gaby does. "He was mad, after I won the race."

"You are infuriating," Gaby informs him.

He has an answer for her, made looser by the concussion swirling in his head, but he stops to wince when the doctor prods at a sore spot on his knee. It had been a tough mission. The doctor gives an apologetic look. "Sorry."

"No, please," Gaby answers for him. "Feel free to poke him some more."

Nevertheless, she doesn't leave his side until Waverly calls for her.

* * *

"And what's this test meant to do?" Gaby asks. She hadn't liked this idea from the beginning.

"Build a tolerance to truth serum," the UNCLE doctor says, with Illya sitting across the table from him. Solo and Gaby stand at the doctor's shoulders. They'll have their turn at this, if Illya's test goes well.

Solo frowns. "I didn't think that was possible."

"We're about to find out." The doctor tells him. "Your name?"

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Birthday?"

"July the 25th."

Gaby scoffs. "Illya, that was last month, why didn't you say anything?"

Without missing a beat. "I have not celebrated my birthday since I was 10. I do not like birthdays."

There's silence in the room. It's a revelation none of them expected to hear him say. Even Illya and he makes a face afterwards.

"I do not like this," he tells them. Sincere, thanks to the serum.

Solo nods. "So much for a tolerance. I think we've gotten our answer for the day." He gives a side glance to Gaby. "Unless there was a burning question you needed answered."

Illya's eyes narrow at Solo and he can't wait for his turn on this side of the table. Gaby's eyes light up and she steps forward, leaning against the table with her palms flat on it's surface.

"I do have a question," she says. "Where did you get-..." She stops. Illya's face has blanched. It leaves her floundering for a moment because that's real fear on his face. She hadn't liked this idea from the beginning. "..your jacket?"

Illya lets out a breath and behind her, Solo smiles, small and proud. "Woodwards," he says. "It is American made," he gives reluctantly and makes a face like that's the most bitter thing he could have said. "I do not like this test."

* * *

"They send my father to Gulag."

The words break the silence. Gaby had been packing, ready to leave Barcelona and head back to headquarters. She has a sprained wrist, scraped knees and a bandage on her temple. Illya's knuckles are still bloody from beating the man who'd hurt her.

She stares at his back. There's a chess board in front of him and it has his full attention only in appearance. He hasn't packed yet. He's returning to Russia for a month. KGB business. Waverly couldn't talk them out of it this time.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. She doesn't know why he'd said it.

"My mother..." he trails off and she sees his finger tapping against his knee.

She licks her lips. "You don't have to-..."

"Men came to the house often. To...help. This is what they said." Illya stares at the chess board. They'll all just pawns when he looks at them this time. "I did not like these men and I tell them this. One...tells it back to me." He's quiet for a long time and Gaby, for once, doesn't know what to say. "This is where scar is from."

Her feet are quiet, light on the carpet as she crosses over to him. She doesn't try to touch the scar again, but one hand rests on his shoulder. She remembers a blanket wrapped around her in the rain, next to the the wreckage of a car after it had been pushed off the road. She remembers the feel of his hand, the solid comfort.

Hers is gentler. It moves up to rest on the back of his neck. He's returning to Russia. He's scared. She knows. There's no home for him there any more.

"I'll see you in a month, Illya," she whispers to him.

He's quiet. His finger stops tapping. "Yes," he agrees. It's only a month.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _Not sure why this song title inspired this, but it did and I am unapologetic._


End file.
